


on your open palm

by driedvoices



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driedvoices/pseuds/driedvoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy internally monologues, and Riza gets shit done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on your open palm

Roy does not particularly like parties. 

As a man of his position, he gets invited to quite a few of them, and he always puts in a few awkward hours for the sake of his ambitions. There's power in numbers, after all, and when the numbers one happens to be chatting up are outrageously wealthy—

Well. It helps.

Nevertheless, he makes sure that he has a subordinate present at all times, mostly to use as an excuse: I'm terribly sorry, miss, but my companion seems to have fallen ill, or I wish I could stay longer, but you see, my brother and I are on our way to visit our elderly grandmother. Breda seems to get the most amusement out of it, making Roy's lies more intricate and dramatic. 

Tonight it's Hawkeye's turn, for the Christmas party of a general, and Roy is standing at the window, looking our forlornly with his tie in his hand. He's having a private contest with that tie, and another man might find it ridiculous to have a competition with an article of clothing, but not Roy Mustang. He knows when a tie is a tie and when it represents some greater struggle. If he puts it on, then he has opened a window and ushered his freedom out. If he resists just a moment longer, though, he can pretend that he has a choice, that his escape is possible and the path to it clear, that he will rise above becoming a slave to the aristocracy and ascend the political ladder by his own merit and skill—it is a noble battle. 

"Sir," she says, knocking and opening the door. "Are you ready to leave? We'll be late."

He turns away from the window and blinks. Riza's dress is modest and probably a bit out of date, but the sheer rarity of seeing her in a dress is enough to make his mouth go dry. "Lieutenant. You look—nice."

"Your tie isn't on," she observes.

Roy looks down at his hand, then back at her. "No," he confirms.

"Do you plan on putting it on at any time this evening, sir?" she says, masking her irritability with clipped indifference. Her hair is loose around her shoulders; it's strange, seeing something soft and free about her. Combined with her blunt tone, it's almost shocking. 

"I'm considering it," he answers honestly, and she sighs. 

"If you plan on leading a country," she says, crossing the room briskly, "I would sincerely recommend learning to dress yourself." She snatches the tie from his grip ( _oh, liberty! oh, honor!_ his mind laments) and wraps it expertly around his neck. 

"That was almost impertinent," he says gleefully. 

"Merely a suggestion, sir," Hawkeye intones, and tugs once on the knot to straighten it. Roy grabs her wrist, holding it there. She could easily shove him aside, but she has the good grace to look startled for a moment, before her expression resigns itself to a thoughtful sort of boredom; Roy imagines that she is contemplating the several ways she could incapacitate him right now, and, for one unwarrantedly shocked second, wonders if she's hiding any weapons on her. 

"Perhaps," he says, relaxing his grip, "I will take your suggestion into consideration."

She doesn't move her hand, splays her fingers across his chest instead. "Of course," she says, with the barest hint of a smile. "We should be going."

"After you," Roy says, and grabs his coat.


End file.
